“Oh, damn,” Tillie swore under her breath, already hearing the conductor announcing the next station.
“Winslow’s next stop, folks,” the conductor repeated as he hurried through the car.
She wet her lips. Her nerves were so frayed, she felt she might scream at the slightest provocation. It was so far out here. Why did that foolish boy want to come out to this God-forsaken land, anyway?
Tillie thought, Thirty-two is hardly a boy, but Luther, I don’t know about your choice.
There were no trees at this place either. None for hundreds of miles. Maybe thousands, she had no way to know how long her butt had been on that hard bench as she stared out the dirty windows at nothing. She almost cheered at the sight of some cows grazing in the distance when they looked up at her or at the train’s whistle. No mind. They looked at her.
In her only experiences with cows, she learned they gave milk and at the expense of a swishing tail of fresh manure or burrs or feet that kicked forward could spill all the hardpressed effort. Mr. Rodiabaker had a cow named Gladdis like that when Tillie was a girl of nine and her family lived on his place. She hated Gladdis then for all the mean things she did to her, but in this land of nothing but rocks and brown grass, even that damn brown cow would be a welcome friend.
On the platform, she looked about. No sign of Luther. Perhaps he had not gotten her letter yet. She’d mailed it the day before she left Fort Smith. A knot formed in her throat. If he had gotten her letter, he surely would have been there. Then the worst imaginable thought struck her.
He had been killed. Her knees threatened to buckle, and she hurried to a bench on the platform. Seated there, she clasped her hands together, wrung them in her lap, and fought to recover her presence.
No. He couldn’t be dead. She’d come all this horrible way to marry him. Not to be a sissy, nor have any more daydreams of all the bad things their union would bring to her life. In Arizona or wherever they lived, she would be happy. Why, when she left Fort Smith in that train car and waved her last good-byes to her “sisters” crowded on the platform, some were crying, others laughing and shouting rather obscene things for her to do with her new husband. Oh, well, they meant her well. Though no doubt, some onlookers within hearing distance didn’t like them being there in public. She’d heard some grumble how they should never have allowed that lot of sluts out of their cribs.
She’d hung out of the window, waved her kerchief, and fought back tears until she could no longer see their faces. Oh, to hell with those snooty church sisters in the train car. The ones who sat there like cigar store Indians in their seats staring at her. Determined to make herself a life outside the whorehouse, she took her seat as ladylike as she knew how, sweeping her dress beneath her.
A tomboy for most her life and the rest of the time a woman of the night, she would have to mirror the ways of these fine ladies with their unsoiled reputations. Seated in the bright sunshine at Winslow, Arizona Territory, the cool wind sweeping her face, she realized she had more important things than pleasing fussy folks; she needed to find Luther.
With effort, she took her two bags inside the depot and left them with the train agent who agreed to keep them safe until she could come back for them. With her shoulders thrown back and the small box hat set and pinned on her head, she looked over the traffic. Then as deliberately as she could, she took her skirt in hand and went down the stairs to the street. She felt eyes on her as she prepared to cross the street, waiting for the passage of a freight wagon.
A teenage boy on top of the load shouted to the driver.
“See her! Wow, she’s sure purty.”
Mouth set, she dared not break into a warm smile for him, but stared ahead at the storefront across the way. Whores did such things as grin at foolish men’s words to egg on their business. That was last week. This week, she belonged to a good man and he would expect her to be true. Her heartbeat drumming under her ribs, she hoped she had the willpower to do it all right.
The first man she asked in the store had not heard of Luther Haskell. She thanked him and with her shoulders back, went out on the boardwalk. After almost colliding with her, that same silly boy from the wagon jerked off his hat.
“Aw, ma’am, I’m sure sorry I got in your way.”
“You’re excused,” she said, in a voice so cold, she hardly believed it came from her throat. Then with her chin up, she swept past the green-eyed youth with his mop of red hair.
A fear crept in her stomach as she went down the rough boardwalk. What if she couldn’t find him in Winslow? No way she’d ever locate him out there on the treeless steppes. Perhaps she should check at the stables next? She went down the steps and the sour smell of horse manure swept her face as she entered the stables.
Skirt clutched in her hand, she peered around for anyone in attendance. It came to her that she had forgotten how strong horses really smelled. The aroma clung to men who visited her at Molly’s, but it was so strong in the alleyway of the barn, it burned the linings of her nose.
“Ma’am?” A short man with three days’ beard stubble stood before her holding his hat and a pitchfork.
“I am looking for Luther Haskell. Have you seen him?”
“Yes, ma‘am. He—you all right, ma’am?”
Head in a swirl, she gulped in a deep breath. Her hand flew to her chest to contain the jolt to her heart. “Yes,” she gasped. “Where is he?”
“Off buying cattle for Mr. Allen. I reckon he’s over in the Christopher Basin, ma’am.”
“What train goes there?” She tried hard to fathom how far away it could be to this basin he spoke about.
A worried expression spread over his gray whiskered face and with his lips peeled back, it exposed his yellow teeth. “There ain’t none. There’s a mail wagon goes there. You might hitch a ride on it.”
“Where does it leave from?” she asked.
“Oh, here. But you better go find Jinxs, Jinxs Carter. He drives it.”
“Where do I find Mr. Carter?”
He put the pitchfork against the wall. “I’ll go get him for you. He’s up in the Bucket Blood and they won’t let the likes of you in there.”
“Thanks. I will wait.” She stepped back out of the barn’s alleyway as the man hurried off to find Carter. Then she became aware she needed to act composed standing there and feeling everyone must be staring at her in the blue dress. Like it was not unusual for her to be before the open double doors of a livery and act unfazed by all this business about a mail wagon and a man called Jinx. She wanted to go squat on her heels and chew on a straw.
“Well, howdy, ma’am!” Before her stood a man as big as bear with a flowing beard that circled his face and the most prominent thing about him was a bright red bulb of a nose that stuck out of it. Dressed in a smoke-stained buckskin coat, he bowed clear over to sweep the ground with his great floppy brimed hat.
“Mr. Carter?”
“Yes. What can I do for you, darling?”
“I need to a ride to wherever you go.”
“Fortune.”
“Fortune?” She glanced for reassurance at the liveryman, who quickly nodded.
“Fortune,” she repeated for him.
“You have any luggage?”
“Yes. I will go get it.”
“No need in you wearing out your pretty shoes. Where is it at?”
“The depot.”
“We’ll swing by there and get it. You ready to go?”
“Now?” Strange, he wanted to leave in midday and wasn’t ready to go a few minutes ago. She nodded. The quicker she reached this place, the sooner she could join Luther. Before she did another thing, she needed some immediate relief from the pressures inside her.
She held the back of her hand to her forehead. “Pardon me, but I need to …”
Both men looked at each other, and the lost look on their faces was enough to make her want to laugh aloud. Then Carter raised his index finger and pointed to the rear. “It is out there, ma’am.”
“Thanks.” With determination, she went past the switching tails of the many horses tied in the barn. The door to the outhouse hung on leather hinges and creaked in protest when she threw it open. Been a while since she had used such a crude place, complete with cobwebs and spiders.
Luther, I am coming if that big galoot out in front can drive a buckboard. A shiver ran up her spine standing behind the closed door. Lord, please don’t let a creepy crawly bug get under my dress.